


Gone and Still Going

by Elliott_Fletcher



Series: Youth (WolfStar Ship Week) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Romance, Wolfstarshipweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:51:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliott_Fletcher/pseuds/Elliott_Fletcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(The beat of heart is always clearer without a cloud of breast.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone and Still Going

 

  
Past gone and still going, Remus relaxed into heavy arms, sinking further still, still, stable, not moving, heaving breath, past gone, still going. Sirius clutched too hard, desperate in spite, despite, the reluctance of lidding to eyes dying, crying, tearing up, tearing holes in hearts now skeletons, skeletons made of hearts, hearts in skeletons now degraded from soil and spore and the acid in our veins. Remus was too great, too great a weight, so he slipped to posthumous, slipped from earthquake arms, the plates of bone shifting with every breath tremor, never calm because death, never dying in the calm; he clenched everything: fingers and rippled skin, all skin, eyelids, eyes lidding, shutting, squeezing as Remus's just fell closed, gone, past gone and still going, and that's when Sirius woke. 

  
Each quiver of muscle scared a bead of sweat away, running in tresses along desert skin, escaping pores pronounced, shaking all across as he sat up, bolt, lightning bolt up and down, eyes wide in shock, electric shock in every vein, every limb, running through him, too much voltage, and Remus was dead . . . in a dream. Not a dream, yes, a dream, too real for a dream, and yet there, in the bed arms away, a reach away, so close so far, slept blissfully Remus, not dead, full of slumber and slumber things, but not death things, full of youth and not death. Relief, and then the fear set in again, like a monster at the foot of the bed, but just his, so he climbed out with the difficulty of a mountain and became the monster at the foot of Remus's bed.

  
Two hands, two, on a foot below covers, a bellow in the brain telling him to leave, a shout, a shot in the heart, and he turned to retreat, tail between legs, but the monster under covers fastened to him, adhering adherent skin, making everything sticky and together, and the cloth of striped pajamas became his skin, second skin, two hands, two, on his and around him, his waist and all that skin . . . was lovely. A lovely word for a grotesque time, two monsters, two humans, so, so human, embraced with more than arms, but legs and hair and hearts, tangle helplessly in divine warmth and fear. 

  
"Not a nightmare," Sirius whispered in the cloth that had a heartbeat, warm, steady yet shaking, comforting in ways specific to a Man's. The beat of heart is always clearer without a cloud of breast. A chest flat could better fit two hands, two, and a head, like now, like then, and Remus welcomed him like a lover, two hands, two, in his matted hair, pressing warmth into his skull. Remus's hands were warmer than blood and more appealing in any sense of darkness, and they looked like Sirius's so he held them, and the blood flew between them and through them until they were hollow shells with hearts and each other, nothing left, only love.

  
"Did I die again?" Remus muttered with moving lips, lips that moved with his cheeks, warm, rubicund cheeks, warm to the touch, because blood is hot but Remus's hands were hotter, on his neck now, and then so were the moving lips, placing one, one, one, kiss, but three all at once, and too confusing for a night-mind, but good all the same and on his Adam's apple . . . made it hard to breathe . . . made it great to inhale . . . his scent, inhale the shadows, the empty air, the middle distance that all smelled like Remus, Remus, and apples.

  
Sirius nodded; Remus felt with his body senses, felt, touch, that sense, too tired to speak, awake enough to snort when Remus said, "I really have to stop doing that." Sirius nodded again, and shuffled up, shuffled on, up, on top, up over, in a blanket of warmth, under the warmth of blanket, and Remus held tight onto his scapula, where his wings were once, and let Sirius cry wet substances into his striped pajamas and striped mattress sheet, and the tears dried on Remus's bare shoulders where the cloth had been pulled back to the night air, cool, invasive, always watching them with six eyes, a monster to join them in their night of blissful fear.

  
Strokes of fingers, many, possibly five and ten but muddled, stroked his hair, long strokes, never leaving, well, constant then but sleepy stroking, relaxing same, or all the same. . . . and kisses too, hopefully, he thought there had been, and more apples, dancing in swirls in nostrils, and those kisses still, on his forehead . . . also his cheeks and nose, neck again but not his Adam's apple, and words said into the skin of his face in hopes they would travel faster to his heart and head. "Even if it won't be okay, it'll be better. I'm here, I'll make sure. . . . protection spells, I know them . . . I'm very smart, you see . . . also very sleepy. It'll be better." 

  
And they both drooped further, sinking to the mattress, entrapped in heavy arms but all together, too warm, nice warmth, sleeping now, on the road to better things, getting closer, going there, Past Gone and Still Going.


End file.
